Mind Appreciation

   There is a scene in the movie Braveheart where William Wallace is talking to the Princess of Wales and he asks her, “Why do you help me?”  She replies, “Because of the way you are looking at me now.”  It’s a great line, and her expression immediately afterwards is fantastic.  You can just tell she is thinking I cannot BELIEVE I just SAID that!  That happens to me a lot.  Only there’s no audience watching and thinking Oh that was cute.   It’s just awkward.  Yes, I say a lot of stupid things.  Tactless things.  I know people question my intelligence and wonder if they should have seated me at the children’s table.  My mind does not grasp deep and wondrous things.  Heck, it barely grasps algebra.  But I rather enjoy my mind.  It keeps me thoroughly amused, and there really is something sort of impressive about it.  What’s that, you wonder?  Well, I tell you in all humbleness; I have the most amazing dreams. 

   Ask anyone in my family who has been present the morning after I recall a dream.  They can be quite fantastic (the dreams, not my family members:).  Action, adventure, intrigue, suspense, drama, and occasionally, violence and horror.  Interesting dreams are evidence of an interesting mind, I always say.  And they’re always so vivid.  Why, just last night I was observing the sweat on the brow of my opponent in the boxing ring.  The cinematography in my dreams is amazing.  Not long ago I found myself falling off an impossibly high cliff, and the view on the way down was so distractingly wondrous I didn’t bother to take the time to worry about the fact that I was falling to my doom. 

   Sometimes I have dreams with intricate plot twists and remarkable character development.  I become rather fond of my dream mates sometimes, and it’s almost sad to leave them when morning comes.  I dream about family and friends a lot, but I also get to meet new people when I fall asleep.  There was a fellow the other night who was kind enough to take my hand and pull me out of a snow bank…repeatedly (I was having a clumsy night).  It’s too bad they don’t really exist; these dream folk, because we’ve had some good times.  Well, not all of them.  Some of them double-crossed me and even tried to kill me.  Come to think of it, some of them succeeded. 

   Anyway, a person with such interesting dreams must have a fascinating mind.  That’s my conclusion, anyway, and my defense.  So the next time someone questions my intellect, I’ll be prepared with this earth-shattering retort: “Yeah, well, I had a cool dream last night!” 

Performance Anxiety

   Performance Anxiety.  Some people don’t get it.  I despise those people.  Actually, I don’t think those people are real people.  Standing up in front of peers and making a speech invokes a primal fear that is very natural and understandable.  Having to complete a task with eyes watching as opposed to completing the exact same task unwatched is much more difficult and really, nearly impossible when you get right down to it. 

      Now mind you, I have had a few mild successes with public performance, but even so, the few times in my life where I have found myself with a microphone in my hand could be considered comparable with other scary, though seemingly less dangerous situations.  An impending snakebite, a fall off a cliff, being held at gunpoint, being chased by a ravenous tiger…that sort of thing.  The brain goes through the same thought process: “Ohhhh not good not good not good get away get away get away get away…” 

   Because putting yourself in a position where others can scrutinize you is really a very dangerous situation.  Why, you may ask.  The odds of anyone physically harming you for getting up and speaking are infinitesimal.  But no, physical harm isn’t the concern here.  Public speaking is dangerous…because people think thoughts.  And the thought that people are thinking thoughts is disconcerting.  The thought-thinkers are thinking unthinkable thoughts (Dr. Seuss, anyone?).  That makes little to no sense, you say.  Ah, but it does, I say.  It’s the same principle used by the people in the scary movie business.  Everyone knows that in a scary movie, the fear is in the unknown, thus the buildup of suspense.  The truth is people’s imaginations create monsters far worse that special effects guys do.  One does not simply expose his movie monster in the light of day with cheery background music and a smile on his face.  One allows him to creep in the shadows and fog, leaving viewers wondering what is it?  What is it capable of? 

   One regards the thoughts of audience members in much the same way.  The speaker observes the raised eyebrow of an audience member in response to what was just said, and he wonders Aha! A thought!  But what thought?  And what will he do with it?  The suspense is almost too much to handle. 

   Such thoughts might include:

“She should have looked in a mirror before walking onstage.  Her bangs are sticking up all over the place.”

“I can’t believe that’s actually his take on the matter.  Was he born in a monastery under a rock on the dark side of the moon?” 

“I wonder if everyone else in this room is as bored as I am.  I should walk over and pull the fire alarm.” 

   You see?  Scary, dangerous thoughts.  So what is one to do when one must bask unwillingly in the light of the proverbial lime?  Unfortunately, the thought thinkers will think thoughts, and there’s nothing you or I can do about it.  I find a lot of prayer helps to psych me up.  That, and Metallica. 

Squirrel Story

Well, a friend of mine informed me that I need to be writing in my blog more often than I had intended.  Since it’s the weekend and I’m not feeling particularly witty or inspired, I’ve scrounged up an old classic to keep ya’ll satisfied.  So, here for your enjoyment, from six years ago, The Squirrel Story:

   There has been a squirrel.  A cute little red one.  Around the outside of the house.  Nevertheless…(is that one word?  Cool.  I’m gonna use that more) people have been freaking out about it.  Ruthy seems convinced that the squirrel is going to get in the house and scratch around in her walls at night so she can’t sleep.  Mom is certain that it will chew the antenna and then crawl under the floor and die right under the living room so she’ll have to light candles to rid the smell.  Dad agrees with all of the above statements, but aside from all of that, he really doesn’t care what the squirrel is capable of, just so he has a chance to be some kind of Rambo squirrel hunter for a day.

   To my exceeding delight, any attempts of squirrel murder on Dad’s part have proved fruitless thus far.  It all started a few days ago.  Maybe it was after we came home from church Sunday, I don’t remember.  I just remember Dad’s reaction to the first sighting: “Aahhhhhhhhhh there’s a squirrel in the feeder.”  The ‘aahhhhh’ representing something between hunter’s delight, homeowner’s exasperation, and something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

    I have been uneasy for the residing wild critters on our property ever since I unwittingly assisted in the assassination of two hapless raccoons who had taken up residence on our property a few months ago.  I came into the house after dumping some old veggies in the apple orchard after dark, and I made a comment to Dad that was probably something like, “Coons in a tree”.

   I was then ordered outside, toting the heavy-duty flashlight in my right hand, whilst my left hand was occupied with the task of trying to stop my lower lip from trembling.  Anyway, like the traitorous wretch to the animal world I turned out to be, I held the flashlight steady while Dad blew away two unsuspecting New York citizens who couldn’t help being raccoons any more than I could help watching in fascination their bloodied, writing corpses twist about on the ground just seconds after the rifle shots cracked resoundingly through the valley on that sad sad night.

   Thanks to burn barrel waste disposal technology, the scent of coon wafted over Spring Valley Farm for days after the unfortunate episode.  …Now, needless to say, when I see raccoons these days, I run at them screaming, “Run, run for your very lives!!”  I bet you didn’t know raccoons have eyebrows.  I bet you’ve never had a raccoon raise its eyebrows at you, either.

   Uh, anyway, yes, the squirrel.  Dad has been driven to distraction trying to catch this thing.  We were watching a suspenseful thriller the other night (The Village, good movie), and at a climactic moment, Mom looks over, and Dad is laying on the couch, gazing up at the ceiling.  When asked about his strange behavior, we were told he was thinking about “how he was gonna catch that squirrel”.

   Needless to say, a cloud of unrest blankets the house of late, and until Dad gets the squirrel, it will not go away.  Well, today at work Dad borrowed a live trap from someone.  I rrreallly didn’t want to know what he was planning to do with the squirrel after he caught it alive.  Really didn’t want to know.  Didn’t.  At all.  The heinous occurrence with the coons had me on edge all day, so when Dad finally sat the family down and started with, “Now.” (all of Dads “important” speeches start with “Now”).

“Now.  About the squirrel…” (gleefully rubbing his hands at this point).

I don’t want to know, I don’t want to know…

“I set the trap.”

(Its hard to glare when your eye is twitching…)

“You have two choices.”

What? Choices? Me?  This doesn’t follow mandatory lecture format…

“I can either take the squirrel in the cage and drown it in the tub…”

(shudder…oh you sick sick man)

“Or. I can give the cage to you and you can take the squirrel out in the pines…and I mean way out in the pines, and let him go.  He should stay out there, he’s got pine seeds to eat…”

   By now I’m not listening anymore because the sun has come out from behind the clouds and the life of a happy little squirrel is going to be spared.  Oh joyous celebration!  “Happy squirrels, yes, happy squirrels there’ll be!” (That’s a song, only the lyrics have been slightly altered).

   Of course, Ruthy is standing there mumbling, “Drown it…”

   So ends the squirrel story I had to tell.  So tomorrow, hopefully in the morning so I can get out of my history test, I will bundle up and trek out to the pine trees and turn loose a happy squirrel in the forest where he belongs with the other happy squirrels. 

Intro Blog

Hi to everyone, and welcome!  I don’t know anything about blogs, I don’t read them, and I don’t know how they work, but I’ve decided to start one.  I couldn’t figure out what to call my blog, until I remembered a certain slumber party many years ago.  I was whispering and giggling with my friends late at night, as per slumber party etiquette, when the conversation got a little too bogged down in talk of boys.  Which boys were cute, which boys were decidedly not cute, which cute boys looked our way and when and for how long, etc.  Well, I had had enough, and said so, which brought the question, “Fine, Meg, what do you want to talk about?”  To which came the legendary (and apparently hysterically funny…and really, only half-serious) response: “I don’t know…how about…animals, and the world around us?” 

   So there you have it, folks; the reason for the title.  And to kick start the whole thing, I’ve written out the tale of my current animal, for your enjoyment. 

Ah, the joys of having a kitten.  Das Fluff is almost five months old now, and she’s almost as much trouble as she was when I first got her.  She had previously lived outdoors, under a trailer, and I brought her to live indoors, where she has the option of lounging on surfaces of varying degrees of cushiness.  I bought her cute cat dishes (with happy kitties on them!) and a heavy-duty scratching post (though apparently not heavy-duty enough, its already falling apart).  Her initial expression of gratitude for all of this was to by-pass the scratching post and uses my body to sharpen her claws.  Later on I would stop and stare at my person in shock and wonder with mild alarm, when did I walk through a briar patch?!...before remembering that ah, yes, I was the proud owner of Destructokitty. 

   She increased her output of damage when she came into heat and decided that her litter box was no longer acceptable as means of relieving herself, and that my bed would suffice just nicely.  She and I disagreed strongly on the issue.  I lost count of how many times I awoke to find her ‘burying’ her newly-deposited pee puddle on my white down comforter (why we animal lovers think we can get away with owning white things is beyond me). 

   So I took her to the vet to get her spayed.  The vet told me she was too young to get spayed.  I put the vet in a headlock and asked him if he would like to come to my house at five thirty in the morning and take the soiled bedding to the washing machine, put it in the dryer, take it out of the dryer, reassemble the comforter inside the comforter slipcover, place the comforter back on the bed, then take the vacuum around the house and suck up the thin layer of feathers that covered everything.  Das Fluff was spayed. 

   After I recovered from the cost of the vet bill, I began to lose sleep over the fact that Das was not doing so well with her recovery.  She was barely eating, her fluff had lost its luster, she was far too thin, and her incision area was not looking healthy.  I told her she could kidnap and misplace as many pairs of my socks as she wanted, as long as she got well.  I called the vet for advice, and they gave me some tips for getting her to eat, and eventually she got better.  Her belly has healed up nicely, and she’s back to being destructive.  Her latest game is bolting out from under my bed (she’s no longer allowed on top), kicking over the wastebasket, and dashing back under the bed before I can spray her with water.  I love my new spray bottle.  When I picked it up at walmart for less than a dollar I was unaware of its range.  I’ve started researching sniper positions and tactics and testing wind speed, it’s that good. 

   For all of Das’ destructive tendencies, I’m glad to have her.  There’s just something about a fluffy kitty purring contentedly in one’s lap that makes one’s life just that much happier.  So I guess I’ll keep her around a while longer.:)